


Across Two Parallels

by airiat



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Parallel Universes, Teldryn is the Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airiat/pseuds/airiat
Summary: In an alternate universe, Teldryn Sero is no longer the best swordsman in all Morrowind, but rather, the Last Dragonborn.





	Across Two Parallels

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for [ArtemisMoonsong's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisMoonsong/pseuds/ArtemisMoonsong) [OC Romance Week.](https://curiousartemis.tumblr.com/post/185774028814/oc-romance-tropes-week) Essentially, it's a reimagining of the first chapter of my fic [Lead Me Not into Temptation,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17337005/chapters/40787927) with a little bit of a twist at the end. 
> 
> This was super entertaining for me to write. Teldryn as Dragonborn? Wouldn't that be something.

After nearly twenty-five years in the snowy wastes of Skyrim, Solstheim is a welcome sight on sore eyes. However, when I start to notice the state of things here, I realize that this is saying quite a lot. The Red Year really did a number on this place. All dead vegetation, ashy ground, and dry, dry air. I could almost choke on it. Still, the architecture is undoubtedly Dunmeri and the scent of cooking kwama egg and scuttle cuts through the parched air like a knife through butter. I’m glad to be in a place that reminds me of home. The tiny village of Raven Rock is a far cry from my city of Blacklight, sure, but it’s a comfort to be amongst my own people again. I’d grown so tired of shouldering the hostility from Skryim’s native Nords.

As I walk up the path to the village, my feet kick up plumes of dust that cake onto my boots. How irritating; I’d forgotten just how filthy things are. At least snow melts when it gets onto your clothes. The village, what little of it there actually is, at least is home to a tavern; another welcome sight, this time for my travel-weary body.  _ The Retching Netch _ , the sign outside reads. I like the sound of that--there’s a story behind it.

The guard standing at the door hardly pays a second of attention to me as I enter the building. As it should be. Once inside, I’m met with a small ground floor level with tables and benches lining the walls. Standing in front of the fireplace in the back is a man stirring food in a cooking pot. At my entrance, he turns around and welcomes me to the cornerclub before returning to his task. It’s not him who catches my eye, but a young Nord woman sitting at a table in the corner. How odd.

Her armor doesn’t look like that of a sellsword’s. No, it’s far too extravagant in its blue-hued steel and floral engraving. The sword at her side also reeks of wealth: golden with...is that sunlight?...radiating from the hilt. An enchantment I’m not familiar with, at the very least. Perhaps she’s a traveler on layover here until she can get back to Skyrim. Though my interest is piqued, I opt not to speak with her just yet and make my way downstairs to the bar. The man tending it looks up at me with surprise as if I am the first person he has seen all day, and it is then that I realize how empty the place is.

"Welcome to the Retching Netch Cornerclub, home of the finest sujamma that will ever grace your lips," he says when I’m near.

“Ah, now  _ that’s _ something I’ve missed dearly,” I say as I take a seat at the bar.

“Then you’re in for quite the treat,” the man answers, producing a tankard from underneath the bar and pouring drink into it from one of the yellow clay jugs that sit on the counter. He slides it over to me. “An authentic Dunmer recipe, but with my own personal twist.”

I hold the mug up to my lips for a moment, getting a whiff of how potent the liquor is. Now if this ain’t the smell of home. I toss it back happily and nearly moan at the taste. Bitter, warm, and earthy, but with a trace of something sweet. The barkeep’s pride is well-placed, indeed. I set the tankard on the bar with a wistful sigh, remembering the wild, drunken nights I had with my old friends in Blacklight.

“Just like my dear old mother used to make,” I say after a moment, a grin on my face. He laughs and moves to refill my mug, but I hold a hand out to stop him. “Rather unfortunately, I find myself on your island for business, not pleasure.”

He looks at me curiously. “What business could you possibly have on Solstheim, serjo?”

“Someone named Miraak tried to have me killed,” I answer. “I aim to find him and put him back into his place. Do you know where he might be?”

The barkeep’s eyes fog over in an eerie way, sapped of all life. “The name is familiar, but I am not sure where from,” he answers, voice flattened.

I’m unnerved by his reaction, wondering if I’ve gotten myself into something more sinister than I bargained for. My unwitting life as Dragonborn has certainly lead me into some exciting new places, but the enemies I’ve contended with have always been ones I could see with my own eyes. I can feel an edge, an undercurrent in the air, and I’m not sure I like it.

“My thanks for the drink, friend,” I finally say, the man still in his statuesque state. “The name’s Teldryn Sero. I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around for a while yet.” 

From seemingly nowhere, the life snaps back into his eyes. “Geldis Sadri,” he says, reaching over the bar to shake my hand. “Come back at any time. The drinks are always flowing here.” 

I stand up from the bar and head back upstairs, my thoughts reeling even more, now. The way Geldis had recovered from his stupor like it had been nothing was unnatural to say the very least, never mind the response to Miraak’s name itself. Just who exactly  _ is _ this Miraak?

When I reach the top landing, I notice that Nord woman has moved to lean against the wall by the exit as if she were waiting for someone. For me, perhaps? As I get closer and start to see her more clearly, I can’t help but grin at the thought of that. I’ve never been one for the look of Nords--too human for my taste--but she’s not half-bad. Long black hair and eyes blue like a winter morning’s frost. Unlike the typical Nord hardiness, there’s also something more gentle about her, more feminine. No,  _ certainly  _ not a sellsword.

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re looking for Miraak,” the woman says at my approach. “Quite an interesting choice of vacation plans.”

“Well, had you been truly listening, you’d know that I am here purely for business,” I say, the corners of my lips lifting into a coy smile. “Though I could probably find a spare moment or two for you.”

“You misinterpret my intentions,” she answers, but I see a faint smile on her lips as well. "Fjoara Ebonhand: the best sword-maiden in all Skyrim is at your service … for the right price.”

Misinterpret them I did. I let my intrigue show plainly on my face. “Wouldn’t have taken you for the mercenary-type.”

“You'll find I'm full of surprises, then,” Fjoara answers, pointedly resting a hand on the pommel of her sword as if the beams of light radiating from its hilt didn’t already catch one’s eye. “With this blade at my side, no enemy can hold a candle to my might.”

I humor her and drop my gaze to where her hand lays. “Is that . . . ?”

“Dawnbreaker? Indeed it is,” she responds, cutting me off before I could finish my sentence.

_ Dawnbreaker _ . That’s a name I’ve heard before. An artifact of the Daedric prince Meridia. Ha! She must take me for a fool. No lowly sellsword would ever be in possession of such a thing. Not unless...I study her for a moment as she watches me expectantly. The armor, the almost ethereal aura about her...is this woman the Champion of Meridia?

“Who are you?” I ask, finally.

She smiles. I can see that she’s caught wind of what I must be thinking. “I’ve already told you who I am. Now, are you with me? Or am I to be left festering here in this tavern waiting for an errant hero to cross paths with?”

She would  _ really _ take me for a fool if I were to pass this offer up. Champion of a Daedric prince? I could hardly think of a more suitable companion to follow me on my Dragonborn misadventures. “Name your price, outlander.”

She shrugs. “I already have all the coin I need. Pay me with your wanderlust--I’ve been cooped up for far too long.”

Her answer is strange, but strange seems to be the common theme on this island. “I won’t argue with that,” I say. She tilts her head as if to say ‘damn right you wouldn’t.’ “So, tell me, what do you know of Miraak?”

“Do you ever see something and feel as if you’ve been there before?” Fjoara asks with an equally strange glint of wisdom in her eye. “There is a lot I know that might be of interest to you. Follow me.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks out through the door. Though rightfully it is  _ her _ who should be following  _ me _ , I feel almost enthralled as I trail behind her obediently. Her question has almost...awakened something within me, something that feels an awful lot like I’ve been here before, done this before. But yet...it’s as if I’m looking at it through a different set of eyes.

There’s something about her, all right. Perhaps more than I know. For now, though, all I can do is explain it away with the odd shadow that has settled over Solsthiem. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I could be persuaded into continuing--let me know if y'all'd be into that.
> 
> Just as a small aside, if anyone who also reads my fic is reading this right now and wondering "Hey Airiat, why are you dickin' around and doing these drabbles instead of updating?" Fear not. I have a big case of writer's block right now, but I'll be back in the near future.


End file.
